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Little  \^'ftj:.i,K 


HEN  Willie  was  a  little  boy, 
Not  more  than  five  or  six, 
Right  constantly  he  did  annoy 
■ ;  \,'l  His  mother  with  his  tricks. 
::  YQ^„ndt  a  picayune  cared  I 
For  what  he  did  or  said. 
Unless,  as  happened  frequently, 
The  rascal  wet  the  bed. 


LOSELY  he  cuddled  up  to  me, 

And  put  his  hands  in  mine, 
Till  all  at  once  I  seemed  to  be 

Afloat  in  seas  of  brine. 
Sabean  odors  clogged  the  air, 

And  filled  my  soul  with  dread. 
Yet  I  could  only  grin  and  bear 

When  Willie  wet  the  bed. 


876911 


S  many  times  that  rascal  has 

Soaked  all  the  bed-clothes  through, 
Whereat  Td  feebly  light  the  gas 

And  wonder  what  to  do. 
Yet  there  he  lay,  so  peaceful  like; 

God  bless  his  curly  head; 
I  quite  forgave  the  little  tyke 

For  wetting  of  the  bed. 


H  me,  those  happy  days  have  flown, 

My  boy's  a  father  too, 
And  little  Willies  of  his  own 

Do  what  he  used  to  do. 
And  I !  Ah,  all  that's  left  for  me 

Is  dreams  of  pleasures  fled  ; 
Our  boys  ain't  what  they  used  to  be 

When  Willie  wet  the  bed. 


AD  I  my  choice,  no  shapely  dame 
Should  share  my  couch  with  me, 
No  amorous  jade  of  tarnished  fame; 

Nor  wench  of  high  degree ; 
But  I  should  choose  and  choose  again 

The  little  curly  head 
Who  cuddled  close  beside  me  when 
He  used  to  wet  the  bed. 

—Eugene  Field. 

October  19,  1895. 


Field  said  his  wife  took  the  boy 
away  on  a  visit,  and  he  found,  in 
their  absence,  he  couldn't  sleep  till  he 
got  up  and  poured  hot  water  on  his 
shirt. 


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